The Satan Painting
by devilspotato
Summary: Clarke wants to paint a portrait of Satan after his fall. Who better to model for her than Bellamy Blake? light clexa, heavy bellarke. the 100 modern au
1. Chapter 1

A/N: feedback is always appreciated! especially since I haven't really written for a while. this is inspired by this post on tumblr: post/122610196549/bamf-happens-imagine-your-otp

* * *

Clarke was fast asleep, sprawled across the couch when her doorbell rang. She jerked up, sending the head shots she'd been evaluating to the floor. It took her a moment to get her bearings. Why did she have all these pictures? Right, for her Satan project. Sadly none of the (three) applicants so far had quite the look Clarke wanted. Sure she didn't exactly know what she wanted herself, but she'd know it when she saw it. The doorbell rang again, startling her, and reminding her why she woke up in the first place. As she got up it rang _again_ , followed by intense knocking.

"I'm coming, I'm coming!" she shouted, now pissed but also still half asleep, so her attempt at angrily striding to the door was marred when she bumped into the wall. She did manage to throw the door open angrily and glare at the- the really nice body whose owner had a not-too-shabby face either. Clarke grimaced inwardly and shoved that thought aside.

"What is it?" she snapped, irritated both at being woken up and at the (hot) stranger's rudeness.

He grinned. "Calm down princess, I heard you could use a little help, and I'm here to offer some."

Clarke bristled at his cocky attitude. "Excuse me? Exactly what help am I supposed to be needing?"

The stranger's grin widened. He pulled a newspaper clipping out of his pocket and unfolded it, reading aloud, "Model to pose for portrait of 'Satan After the Fall.' If you think you look like Satan, ple-"

"Yeah, yes, I remember now," Clarke cut him off. She stared at him now unabashedly, examining his features closely with her artist's eye. Now it was his turn to be flustered, except he wasn't. Her gaze seemed to increase his arrogance. "What's your name?"

"Bellamy Blake. First things first though, this is a _paid_ gig, right?"

Clarke groaned inwardly. She always hoped people would forget to bring up money. Her parents were successful enough that when Clarke struggled (like she was now) she could always borrow, but she hated being in debt, even to family. Then again, many artists were much less fortunate than her, so she couldn't really complain.

"Yes. Does seven dollars an hour sound good?"

Bellamy raised his eyebrows. "Less than minimum wage never sounds good."

Clarke took a deep breath. "I'm going to be paying you for sitting around doing nothing. You want minimum wage, go get an actual job."

"Already have one, thanks, princess." Clarke blinked, and started to say something but Bellamy cut her off. "You know what? Seven dollars an hour is fine. So, do I look like your Satan?"

Clarke looked him up and down. In her half-formed ideas of her Satan, she never pictured anything like Bellamy's freckles or slightly crooked nose. But he did have an intensity in his eyes that worked for her (that is, her project), and he certainly had the attitude. In any case, she had posted that notice in the paper a month ago, and had gotten so few responses Bellamy might well be the best she would get. And this best wasn't too bad.

"Alright," she said, done with her evaluation. Bellamy seemed to relax a little. Clarke raised her eyebrows. She hadn't noticed he was tense until that moment. "On one condition," she added, smirking when he tensed up again.

"And what's that, princess?" he asked, trying to play it off, it seemed to Clarke.

"Don't call me princess."


	2. Chapter 2

Clarke stared anxiously at the clock. Yes, it was only 12:47, and yes, Bellamy wasn't supposed to come until 1, but he seemed a bit like a shows-up-thirty-minutes-late-hungover kind of guy, and normally Clarke wouldn't care, but when it affected her art, it was unacceptable. She was in the middle of an imagined argument with Bellamy about his tardiness when her doorbell rang, at 12:55. Okay. So he wasn't late. That was a good sign.

"Hey, pri- Clarke," he smiled when she opened the door. His hair looked (better) more disheveled than it had the day before, yet he was less scruffy, wearing dark jeans and a leather jacket. Clarke adjusted her oversized, paint-splattered shirt a bit self-consciously, trying to look at Bellamy through a purely artistic perspective (his face was very aesthetically appealing).

"Hi," she replied brusquely. This was business, after all. "Come on in, my stuff's set up in the living room."

Bellamy glanced around as he walked inside. "Nice place. It's all yours?"

"Hmm?" Clarke was readjusting her canvas while he looked around. "Oh, um, no actually, I'm rooming with a friend, but he's out of town right now."

"Two- you can't be more than 20, 21, right?" Clarke nodded. What was he getting at? "And I'm guessing your friend's the same age. So two 21-year-olds living in an apartment like this? In this city?" He stopped looking around and turned to her. "You must make a hell of a lot of money off your art."

Clarke shrugged, embarrassed by the talk of money. "The art is a side thing. I have a job too, you know." She didn't add that her parents helped out (only when she absolutely needed it). No need to appear like a spoiled little rich girl, especially when she most definitely wasn't one. Wells was the one who wanted to stay in this fancy apartment instead of the cheaper one downtown that Clarke had preferred.

Bellamy glanced around again. "Must pay well. Anyway," he turned to her, "how do you want me?"

"Wha- oh, well, just do whatever feels natural, and I'll direct you from there."

Bellamy stood a moment, thinking. "It's supposed to be Satan just after the fall, yeah?" Clarke nodded. "Alright." He flopped on the couch, draping an arm across the back and letting the other one hang over the side. He stared moodily out into the distance. Quietly through his scowl he whispered, "This good, princess?"

Clarke bit back a laugh. "I said don't call me that. But yes, that's good. Except... face me." Bellamy obeyed. Clarke was unprepared for the full-on intensity of his gaze, and ducked behind the canvas to hide her blush (it's just extra blood in your cheeks, it doesn't mean anything). "Good," she said, dabbing a few different colors on her palette and swirling them together. "Now don't move."

As she painted, Clarke relaxed, and entered that focused state of mind that's best described as "in the zone".

* * *

Bellamy sighed inwardly, and readjusted himself on the couch.

"Don't do that," Clarke snapped, more sharply than she intended. His sudden movement had thrown her off. "Please, put your arm back," she tried again more gently. Bellamy dropped his hand again. "No need to yell," he said calmly.

"Sorry," Clarke muttered, trying to regain her focus.

"That's the fifth time you've done it. It gets dull, you know," Bellamy continued, "sitting here doing nothing. You've got your painting but I don't have anything to entertain me," he said, almost petulantly.

Clarke stopped painting to glare at him. "As I recall, _you_ signed up for this, so you can go ahead and blame yourself for your boredom." She tried again to continue her painting.

Bellamy chuckled. "You're right. Of course, you seem like the type of girl who's always right, or at least thinks she is."

Clarke's patience broke. "You know what? I'm done. I can't work anymore. We'll finish another day."

"Wait," Bellamy said, rising from the couch, what do you mean, another day? I thought this was gonna be a one day thing?"

Clarke folded her arms across her chest and scowled, trying to appear intimidating despite her oversized shirt and the paint smears on her face. "And what exactly gave you that idea?"

Bellamy shrugged. "I do have a friend who's an artist and she usually only spends a few hours per painting."

"Yeah?" Clarke's scowl deepened. "Well guess what? I'm not your friend." She turned away, gathering her paints and brushes.

Bellamy snorted. "No, you're sure as hell not. But you are in need of a new Satan." He went to the door. "Maybe you should mention in your next ad that they have to be able to deal with an obsessive control freak so they're prepared."

Clarke's temper flared up (even more than it already was). "I'm surprised you have a job, why would anyone hire an arrogant lazy asshole like you!"

But Bellamy was already gone.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: thanks for reading guys! I'm still trying to get back into the swing of writing, so feedback is always helpful and appreciated!**

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Clarke glanced warily around. This wasn't a _very_ nice part of town, and she knew she looked out of place. Not that she couldn't defend herself, but she'd rather not have to. She kept an eye on the house numbers as she passed until she found the one that matched what she had written on her paper. Walking up the steps, she took a deep breath before knocking on the door.

* * *

She didn't hear the knocking at first. It was quiet at first, as if the knocker didn't really want to be there, but it echoed itself more aggressively a second later.

"Coming!"

She opened the door, standing in front so the view inside was blocked, and quizzically eyed the blonde girl who looked just as shocked as she was.

"Um, sorry for bothering you, but is there a Bellamy Blake here?"

Octavia raised her eyebrows. "Who's asking?"

The blonde quickly introduced herself, "I'm Clarke." She held out her hand. Octavia shook it coolly, not taking her eyes off Clarke, who continued, "I, uh- I'm an artist, and he helped me out with a project, but it's not quite finished yet so I need his help again."

Octavia looked suspicious. "Why was he helping you? How long have you known him?"

Clarke began, "Oh, I met him abou-"

"We've known each other for a while," Bellamy cut in from behind Clarke. She jumped, startled by his proximity, but Octavia grinned. "Bell!" She opened the door all the way. Looking back at Clarke, she shrugged. "If Bellamy's cool with you, so am I. I'm Octavia, by the way." Clarke nodded absently, noting the well-worn furniture, the resemblance between Octavia and Bellamy, and most importantly, the police uniform Bellamy was wearing. She shook her head slightly. "Bellamy," she called. He glanced up, still unfastening his gun belt. Clarke began to take the money out of her pocket. "I've got your-"

"Wait a minute, Clarke, we'll go in a minute and then we'll talk, alright?" He finished taking off his belt and holster, then disappeared down a hallway. "Be right back!" he shouted.

Clarke remained uncomfortably in the doorway. Octavia was sitting on the couch, appearing to watch television, but Clarke had a feeling the TV wasn't what truly had her attention. After about two minutes Bellamy returned with regular clothes and a bag. He kissed Octavia's head, "See you tonight, O."

She hummed distractedly, "Bye big brother."

Bellamy walked out, pulling Clarke with him and closing the door behind him.

* * *

Clarke had to hurry (slightly) to keep up with Bellamy's longer strides. "What the hell was that?"

Bellamy ignored that. "How did you find out where I live?"

"I looked in the phone book. They still exist, you know. What the hell was that?"

Again, he ignored that. "How'd you get here?"

"I walked. It's not that far from the hospital."

Bellamy glanced at her. He hadn't noticed the scrubs until then. "So you're a doctor?"

"Nurse. Now, _what the hell was that?_ "

Bellamy sighed. "The reason I replied to your stupid ad in the first place is because Octavia's birthday is coming up and I need money to buy her a really nice present, alright? It's her twentieth birthday, so I wanted to do something special." He looked straight ahead as he said this, almost embarrassed. Clarke would have smirked if she could, but she was actually almost stunned (/almost/). "Wow. That's actually sweet."

Bellamy beat her to the smirk. "Surprised a guy could be this hot _and_ sweet?"

Clarke snorted. "You read my mind," she said sarcastically. "Where are we going?"

"Back to the hospital. Your car's there, right?" Clarke nodded. They walked the rest of the way in silence, but it wasn't uncomfortable.

When they reached the hospital, Clarke turned to Bellamy, "Here. For the few hours you did help me. Thanks, by the way." She took the money out of her pocket and almost shoved it at Bellamy. He stopped walking, so she did too. Taking the money out of her hand, he laughed.

"Now I know I didn't spend 7 hours at your place, so why is there a $50 bill in my hand?"

Clarke sighed. "I was hoping you'd be willing to- to come back." Bellamy grinned. He looked so self-assured Clarke had to frown, and continued, "It's just, I've already gotten a decent amount done, it would be a huge waste of paint and canvas if I don't continue, and-"

"And I'm your perfect Satan," Bellamy finished, with a (she had to admit it) very devilish grin on his face.

"Not to mention the fact that you need the money for your sister," Clarke added haughtily.

Bellamy's smile dropped a little, but he leaned in close to her and whispered, "Face it princess, you need me as much as I need you."

Clarke leaned in too, refusing to back out. "Be at my place tomorrow at noon. And _don't_ call me that."

Bellamy leaned back, and Clarke was relieved she won that little power display. "Can't, I have work then. How's Saturday at noon?"

Clarke laughed. " _I_ have work then. What about now? My shift today's over."

Bellamy hesitated. "I can't, I have work."

Clarke stared at him. "Didn't you just get off?"

Bellamy smiled wryly. "I lied before. I have two jobs, not one."

Clarke raised her eyebrows. "How do you have the time for that? Why?" (would you do that to yourself? but that would be rude to say aloud.).

Bellamy laughed. "Not everyone has parents to pay all their bills." He bit back the "princess" that almost escaped at the end. "Octavia's got a job too, but she's also going through college, and we're preparing to pay off the shitstorm of debt after that."

Clarke took a moment to process this. She's never had any problems like this. Her parents were always there with their cushy salaries from being a doctor and a council member, respectively. She'd never had any real financial hardships. "Give me your hand."

"What? Bellamy looked at her like she'd grown a second head. Clarke pulled a pen out of her pocket Bellamy looked suspiciously at her, but slowly held out his hand. She took it and scribbled quickly on it. "This is my number, call or text me when you've got the time so we can arrange the painting times, okay? Do you need a ride anywhere?" It was the least she could offer him. Bellamy smiled. "Thanks, but I can walk from here. It's just a few blocks away."

Clarke shrugged. "See you later, then," and walked away.


End file.
